


Glass Flowers

by simplebitch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, advocation for the recreational use of elfroot, arty confesses his feelings through symbolism, arty is impressive dorian is impressed, it's a tried and true system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 19:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10600254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplebitch/pseuds/simplebitch
Summary: There were many rumors about just what it was that Inquisitor Lavellan did when he disappeared into the Undercroft for hours at a time, but by some unspoken rule nobody had actually ventured to disturb his solitude. Dorian, bored and curious about the man who sealed the Breach, has decided to investigate, consequences be damned. Inside the Undercroft he discovers that not only are all of the rumors completely wrong, but he ends up learning about the enigma that is Arcturus Lavellan as well.





	1. Get to Know Me

**Author's Note:**

> just a thing i wanted to write about one of my latest inquisitors. arty is a good kid and dorian is hopelessly smitten.
> 
> edit: now with a second part and a new title!

It was curiosity, Dorian told himself, that had him navigating the twisting halls of Skyhold to enter the Undercroft.

Curiosity, and an innocent desire to get to know their fearless leader better.

The Inquisitor was an enigma, the famed Herald of Andraste who was glaringly, unapologetically Dalish and yet more than willing to fix every human problem he came across. A man capable of charming even the most hopeless miser out of his last coin, of playing a crowd like a fiddle, yet most comfortable barefoot and knee deep in a river chasing bugs out from under rocks.

The duality of man, he supposed.

Dorian supposed it was perhaps not the best idea to disturb Arcturus while he was in the Undercroft. A certain sense of privacy was expected when the elf disappeared through the door, though he had never explicitly told his inner circle not to disturb him. Dorian suspected it was more an unspoken rule, designed to give him some semblance of privacy from whatever messenger or noble wanted him to solve their problems. Nobody really _knew_ what he was doing down there besides Harritt or Dagna, but the two were closed lipped about it.

Rumors spread through Skyhold like wildfire—as they were known to do—and there was a betting pool running on what exactly it was. Options ranged from the mundane; mixing potions, or overseeing enchantments of weapons, to the outlandish—Dorian was absolutely certain that Arcturus was not creating a golem down there.

Hearing all of the rumors had not prepared Dorian for the truth, however.

“Glassblowing?” He hadn’t meant to just blurt the word out—really he was much more poised than this—but it had come as a shock.

Arcturus didn’t respond, crouched in front of a long metal table as he pressed his lips to the end of the blowpipe. Dorian watched the elf work, his hands working to keep the blowpipe in a constant state of motion as the glob of glass was formed and started expanding.

“Hullo Dorian.” He moved quickly back to the furnace, collecting more clear glass and repeating the process.

He was certain that his mouth was hanging open, though thankfully Arcturus couldn’t see, his attention completely invested in his work. Dorian gave himself a shake, approaching the workbench. At least he intended to, making a few steps towards the Inquisitor only to be stopped by a noise from Dagna.

Turning to face the Arcanist, he found that she was holding out a pair of goggles. “Safety first.” She warned, “Don’t want something to shatter and lose an eye because of it.”

He wanted to protest—because really? Goggles? He would look ridiculous—but he recognized the stubborn look on the dwarf’s face.

With a sigh Dorian put the goggles on, making a face as he adjusted the strap.

“You know,” He offered conversationally as he approached Arcturus, “You’re going to disappoint everyone who thought you were coming down here to secretly smoke elfroot.”

“Please.” He scoffed, the corner of his mouth hitching up in a smirk. “That’s never been much of a secret.”

Which, he supposed, was very true. Dorian watched in interest as the glass was shaped, and really there was something utterly fascinating about the quick, confident way Arcturus worked. Not to say that the elf was in any way timid or bashful at any other time, but here in the Undercroft his wide eyed wonder and natural curiosity was tempered with a more serene aura. The kind that could be found in the reassurance of repetitive tasks.

There was something soothing, mesmerizing, about the easy system that he had; form, heat, repeat. It was all rather cyclic in his opinion, the blowpipe kept near constantly spinning to prevent the glass from becoming unbalanced. All very routine to Arcturus, and if Dorian was honest with himself he had to admit that the way he bit his lip, fully focused on his work, was quite fetching.

Arcturus reached for a strange looking tool, a metal cone attached to a thin, curved pipe, and pressed it to the mouthpiece of the blowpipe. An extender that would allow him to expand the bubble, doubling it in size between sessions of reheating the glass.

“Is there something you needed?” He asked suddenly, and Dorian realized with a start that he’d been staring. “Somebody looking for me I assume?”

“Nothing quite so demanding I assure you.” He was grateful for the heat of the furnaces, in that he could use it as an excuse for why his face was so red. “I just decided to brave the Undercroft to discover the truth behind your slipping away.”

“Brave the—nobody is forbidden from coming down here.” Arcturus huffed a laugh. “What did you all think would happen if you did? I’d breathe fire on you, or toss you over the cliff?”

“It was a concern.” He admitted, an answering grin on his face. “Kaffas, how can you stand the heat so close?”

“Warmth balm. Also, you get used to it after a few years.”

“You’ve been doing this for _years?_ My dear Inquisitor, you are a man full of surprises.”

“Ha, well, what can I say I aim to astound. Dagna, would you…?” He gestured absently to the other, solid rods that were heating.

“Right, of course!” She flipped her own eye protection down, a more elaborate set of multi-lensed goggles that were no doubt used mainly in her own work as she took one of the smaller rods and gathered a bit of glass on it.

Arcturus followed her back to the bench, brow furrowed and lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration. He was silent as they worked, and Dorian could see the tension of anticipation, the squint of his eyes and twitch of his ears that indicated he was prepared for everything to suddenly go south. It was over and done with in less than a minute, glassblowing being a craft that couldn’t afford for hesitation, and as soon as the item was transferred to the other rod Arcturus moved to stick it back in the heating furnace.

The goggles were, perhaps, a necessary tool Dorian realized, attention shifting to the crackle and pop of glass that broke off the now cooled blowpipe.

“I met a master at the first Arlathavan I was allowed to attend.” It took him a moment—watching Arcturus widen the mouth of what Dorian assumed would be a glass or vase—to realize that the Inquisitor was speaking to him. “When I was maybe thirteen, I spent a few years apprenticed to her.”

“So,” Dorian dragged a stool over, sitting beside him and watching him work. “Your Keeper just let you go join another clan? Is that common practice with the First? Though I suppose she did send you to the Conclave.”

“I’m not—” Arcturus coughed slightly on his laugh. “I’m not the First of Clan Lavellan, I’m the Second. And my m—Keeper Istimaethoriel didn’t send me, I volunteered.”

He let out a small sigh, reaching up to rub at his eyes beneath his own eye protection. “My clan has always been respectful to the humans we share a border with. And have always had open trade with them so glass working was an expensive skill the clan could utilize, enough to pay for the equipment necessary. And I had to split my time studying with the craftswoman, as well as with the Keeper of the other clan.”

Dorian let out a surprised noise when Dagna approached again, with a dollop of molten glass on a rod. Without missing a beat, Arcturus grabbed the dripping end with his tweezers, anchoring it to the piece he was working on to create a swirl of color.

“The Keeper wanted to send a spy to the Conclave, and had asked for volunteers among the hunters. It came as a bit of a surprise, and a bit of an argument, when I told her I wanted to go.” A cloud of steam, and a few sparks as he used a wad of water soaked parchment to smooth the sides again. “This business between the mages and Templars, what the Conclave represented, was beyond mere human mages. It was precedent setting, and more than that, it was a chance for me to go out and see the world.”

“Of course, you see how that ended up.” It was impossible to miss the slight note of bitterness in his voice, the subdued little shrug, and Dorian wondered if he ever regretted volunteering.

It was gone an instant later, and Arcturus perked up again. “My older sister is the First of Clan Lavellan.” He let out a soft, private laugh. “There was talk about sending her, but I think it’s for the best that they didn’t.”

“Not the friendly sort, your sister?” Dorian offered curiously.

Arcturus didn’t talk much about his private life. He would answer any questions, would be happy to discuss life in the clan, but they were always general, broad answers. Never anything truly specific. Sitting here with him, watching him work and hearing him speak so openly of his past, it felt like a look into a very private window of his life. Dorian couldn’t help but feel a little awed by the trust being placed in him, in that moment.

“Ah… Ishka is very. Hm. I think she would get along well with Cassandra.” He offered. “She’s very no-nonsense, and stern. I feel sorry for anyone who gets in her way and… should she have been in my position? Well, she would have reacted to being called the Herald of Andraste much more violently than I.”

“She sounds delightful.” The human laughed. “That looks amazing, by the way.”

What had started as merely a bubble of clear glass had quickly, and effortlessly, been transformed into a wide bowl, with a swirl of glittering green color in it. Dorian followed the Inquisitor to a large kiln, peering in curiously to see it filled with other, matching pieces, a few glasses and even a set of plates. With a bit of water and a firm tap to the rod he broke the bowl off, letting it rest in the kiln to be safely brought down to room temperature.

Arcturus grinned, flashing pointed canines as his ears drooped slightly at the praise. “Ma serannas, Dorian. I still have a few more pieces I would like to try before I finish for the day, would you…” A flare of color, chocolate ringed emerald eyes dropping to the side, an unexpected—appreciated—show of bashfulness. “Would you like to stay and watch?”

Dorian brightened at the invitation, returning to his seat. “I would love to see the master at work. Would you tell me more of your Clan?”

“Will you tell me of Tevinter?”

He ignored the warmth that coiled in his chest at that, chalked it up to the heat from the furnace, and gave the Inquisitor his best, most dazzling smile. “A story for a story? Why if Varric were here he would eat this up.”

He had been worried, their initial conversations, when they’d first returned to Haven, had been tense and stressful. But now it seemed, not only had Arcturus warmed up to him, but the mage even seemed to enjoy his presence after all.


	2. Flowers by the Windowsill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It became a thing--their thing. Dorian would watch Arcturus work in the Undercroft, and they would share stories of their lives before the Inquisition. Chipping away at the enigma that was Inquisitor Lavellan, it was an innocent way to build camaraderie. 
> 
> Until it became something else entirely.

It became like their secret after that; Dorian didn’t tell anyone about the Inquisitor’s hobby, and as such whenever they were back in Skyhold he would often make time to pull himself away from the library to go watch. Arcturus, for his part, more than enjoyed the attention and would often work up a narrative of his actions as though teaching an apprentice.

He would have made a good teacher, Dorian thought, watching the elf tease out the neck of a long bottle.

“The key is,” He explained, “to have the right spin on it. Spin too slowly, and your glass becomes unbalanced, and lopsided. Spin too fast, and the same exact thing happens, albeit a little more dangerously.”

“So it’s a balancing act.” Dorian offered wryly, elbows propped on his knees, and chin resting in his hands.

His lips tugged up in that private, teasing smile, pulling at a recent cut, Venatori that had gotten in past lightning and barriers. “As are most things in life, no?”

Arcturus gave a quiet sigh, free hand reaching up to push snowy white hair out of his face. “Living with the clan, most of the things I’ve made were practical. Beautiful, yes—because why create something if you’re not going to make it beautiful—but form followed function.” A thoughtful hum followed. “Now though, the Inquisition can afford to have glass imported in. Creators they don’t even know that I can do this.”

He let out a frustrated noise, looking down at the bottle even as he kept it from becoming warped. “There are so many things I want to _try_ , without fear of making a mistake, and wasting resources.”

“So try them.” Dorian answered.

“What, like it’s that simple?” Even as he said it, in that hopeless, self-deprecating way that meant he was trying to talk himself out of it, Dorian could see the hopeful, analytic look spark in his eyes.

Eyes that the human had admittedly spent a lot of time thinking about lately.

Dorian stood, repositioning himself as Arcturus moved closer to the gloryhole. “It is that simple. Raw materials can be shipped in, and deals made in Serault for tools or anything else you need.”

“If you go looking for reasons it _can’t_ be done, you’ll never accomplish anything, and your skills will stagnate.” And he absolutely would not let that happen; not only did Arcturus create absolutely breathtaking works of art, but more than that it was one of the few methods of stress relief the Inquisitor had. “You’re far too skilled for that to happen, it would be a crime.”

That earned him a surprised look, eyebrows pulling up and Dorian could almost feel the flush that came to his cheeks. He hadn’t meant for that to come out so impassioned, could hear the voice in his head telling him to _pull back_ and cover the emotion with some snide comment. Just as soon as the thought came, it was dashed by the shy, pleasantly surprised look on Arcturus’ face.  

Maker, he was oh so handsome.

“I… you’re right of course.” His gaze slid down to the side, though the smile remained, soft and sweet and doing terrible things to Dorian’s stomach. “Thank you.”

“Well,” It was a flighty core to the flippant remark. “Of course I’m right. Now, don’t forget when you finish that up, you do still have several meetings.”

“The Inquisitor’s work is never done.” Arcturus sighed.

*             *             *

A month long push into the Emprise du Lion followed almost immediately afterwards, cold and haunting, and full of enough red lyrium to leave all of them somber. They were due for a little time in Skyhold to recuperate, waiting as the Inquisition’s troops were organized to make the march on Adamant fortress.

That was when the gifts started appearing.

A new pen appeared on Varric’s writing desk, twisted glass marbled in warm gold and red pigments. It drove the dwarf mad when he tried to figure out where it had come from, with no results, but Dorian noticed that it had quickly become his favorite.

An elaborate paperweight for Josephine, what looked like a small sunflower trapped inside a bubble of completely clear glass. She made a habit of showing it off to anyone who came to visit, lamenting that she could thank the giver properly.

Sera returned to her room to find a glass jar, with a number of glass bees trapped inside, designed to look like they were all in flight. A lidded jar of homemade horn balm for the Iron Bull, and a set of wind chimes for Blackwall to hang up in his own area.

Vivienne was delighted to find a bottle of her favorite perfume waiting in her quarters, and though Cassandra would act gruff about it, the highly detailed bookends—not dragons, bears of all things an inside joke—were proudly displayed on her own writing desk.

If Solas noticed the addition of the terrarium on his desk, he didn’t mention it, though occasionally the glass would catch his eye and a fond smile would curl his lips.

Figurines for Cullen and Lelianna, Cole of course knew that the glass rabbit was from Arcturus, though he didn’t mention it save for a soft, awed, ‘thank you’, and even Yllwyn was surprised to find a long hair pin among her things when she’d returned to Skyhold, the Warden Hawke in tow.

Dorian laughed as he watched all of them trying to figure it out, arguing amongst themselves as to who it could possibly be. There came a moment when attention turned to him—he had offered input on what Arcturus should make—but he brushed them off with a laugh. After all he argued, should he give a gift, he would certainly want recognition for it.

It came as a surprise, though he supposed it really shouldn’t have, when he returned to his quarters to find not only an elaborate goblet, but a vase filled with glass flowers waiting for him. Dorian focused on the goblet, etched in gold leaf with a serpent for a stem. It was easier to marvel at the detailing, at the attention, than to contemplate the meaning behind the flowers.

It wasn’t that he was unused to receiving gifts, he had been showered with them back home, but this was different. This was undeniably different, because it was more than just a play for his favor; it was handmade, something that Arcturus had put not only effort into, but deep thought as well. Something that he wanted to surprise Dorian with, because the human hadn’t seen any of this being made, or even waiting in the kiln.

A gift of appreciation, he told himself, nothing more. He certainly refused to read into it; Arcturus liked giving gifts, that much had been made abundantly clear already. A show of gratitude, for Dorian’s company in the Undercroft, and his encouragement in pursuing more experimental techniques. Anything else would be…

No. It was just a gift among friends, he told himself.

The flowers themselves—because he couldn’t just pretend they weren’t there—were gorgeous, and Dorian could see that care was taken to make them seem as realistic as possible. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he sorted through them, stems of bright yellow acacia, peppered with white and pink bunches of jasmine, colorful spreads of dawn lotus, and daffodils, with a single rose, the petals painted in a blush of peach, darkening to red at the tips.

Dorian pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to smother smile that threatened to form.

There was a promise in those flowers, in the meaning behind them, and there was no reason to believe that they weren’t selected for their symbolic significance. A promise that he’d seen before, in almost smiles and shared stories. In time spent together, lessons given and lighthearted, teasing banter—or, not simple banter apparently, but actual flirting.

_Genuine_ flirting.

Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that information, this indirect expression of intention that could be taken however he wanted to.

In spite of his best efforts that smile broke out around the press of his fingers, and he made a show of putting the vase of flowers by the window to catch the light and send it skittering across his chair.


End file.
